Monday, April 23, 2007

two months bleh

About every other evening I drive up to be with you and help you bathe. The bath is alarming because you’re forced to use the low-level oxygen – the other tube is too short. You have much less air than usual, so you’re afraid, so I’m there to spot you.

Most of me is occupied keeping things under control, but for part of me it’s total torment. My eyes sip each of your inches, every fine golden hair, the freckles on your shoulders, the curves and folds in your skin as you waver in the water. You’re so fragile right now, breathing anxiously: lovemaking is unthinkable when it costs you just to squeeze my shoulder.

I know the tease isn’t intentional -- to see your body every other day and be unable to make love to you -- but the reminders are almost painful. Touching you, my hands tingle and echo up the insides of my arms, remembered sensations ram wires through my shoulders. Prickles in my neck urge my mouth forward, wanting to feel the nearest bit of you.

Driving home I see the shine of your skin in the moon’s speckles on the bay. I can take ten seconds and relive them for an hour. Remember the way the adrenalin wires burn all the way down, shoulders to calves, and your warm skin that I wrap myself around like a snake. All I have is memory right now.

Sometimes I wish I could forget.

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